


Frappes

by annie_reckson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Love, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:02:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie_reckson/pseuds/annie_reckson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The same soft hand smacked his cheek a few times, “C’mon Sherlock, open your eyes for me.”</p>
<p>In response, his eyelashes fluttered a bit and he managed to barely creak his eyelids open. His vision was blurry - no doubt a combination of blood loss and the narrow window created by his eyelids - but the figure of Sergeant Donovan leaning over him was unmistakable. And suddenly, a memory washed over him and flowed out of him before he could stop it.</p>
<p>“We really must stop meeting like this, Sally.” He slurs out.</p>
<p>Even though he still isn’t seeing clearly, it’s difficult not to notice the way her face briefly softens, as if she, too, remembers. Just as quickly though, it fades away and the stern jaw is back and she’s looking at him the same way she looks at him every day now. Sherlock pretends to not notice, shuts his eyes again to avoid thinking about the way she looked at him before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here Comes the Feeling You Thought You'd Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to finish this completely before posting it, but I am SO EXCITED about it that I decided to post it early. 
> 
> Basically, my headcanon is that the reason Sherlock and Sally act so hateful towards each other in the show is that they were in a relationship that went sour. This fic explores that.
> 
> Sherlock's memories will be bookended by lyrics from 'Horchata' by Vampire Weekend, a song that I think explores similar themes.

There was a faint wailing. _Was that a child? No no...a siren. But why is there a siren?_

_Oh._

_That’s right._

_You got shot. Again._

_...you idiot._

A soft hand caressed his cheek before stopping abruptly, as if they were afraid someone would catch them doing it. He wanted to open his eyes, but the throbbing pain that started somewhere near his brain stem and radiated through his occipital lobe made him reconsider.

_You shouldn’t have let yourself fall. There was no way you’d end up with a soft landing._

The same soft hand smacked his cheek a few times, “C’mon Sherlock, open your eyes for me.”

In response, his eyelashes fluttered a bit and he managed to barely creak his eyelids open. His vision was blurry - no doubt a combination of blood loss and the narrow window created by his eyelids - but the figure of Sergeant Donovan leaning over him was unmistakable. And suddenly, a memory washed over him and flowed out of him before he could stop it.

“We really must stop meeting like this, Sally.” He slurs out.

Even though he still isn’t seeing clearly, it’s difficult not to notice the way her face briefly softens, as if she, too, remembers. Just as quickly though, it fades away and the stern jaw is back and she’s looking at him the same way she looks at him every day now. Sherlock pretends to not notice, shuts his eyes again to avoid thinking about the way she looked at him before.

“MEDIC! Where is that fucking AMBULANCE! He’s losing too much blood!”

The urgency in her voice is soothing as he fades in and out of consciousness. He is vaguely aware of multiple strong hands - a paramedic octopus perhaps? - lifting him up off the pavement and rolling him away. He opens his eyes once in the ambulance and thinks that he sees Sally sitting next to him and looking out the window, but when he says her name, she doesn’t respond. He wants to reach out and touch her hand, see if she’s actually real, but his body refuses to cooperate.

And then...

And then...

They hook him up to the morphine.

_....Here comes the feeling you thought you’d forgotten...._

_The last thing he remembers is hating everything, especially his family, and wanting to run away and leave them forever. He gets as far as the nearest dance club with bass thumping loud enough to turn his brain off. Once he’s had a few shots, he starts the hunt for his real reason there. He’s not stupid, he knows exactly how to spot the dealers - calm faces, wide eyes, relaxed demeanors. And with some extra cash courtesy of Mycroft not guarding his wallet carefully enough, he’s able to procure enough to get himself blitzed out of his mind._

_And then everything is perfect. His parent’s disappointment doesn’t matter. Dropping out of uni doesn’t matter. Mycroft's disapproving looks don’t matter. Music matters. Cocaine matters. The boy pressing him against the wall and grinding against him matters. Vodka matters. Cigarettes matter._

_It’s when he steps out for a smoke that it all goes topsy-turvy. He just gets the cigarette good and lit when he sees the flashing blue and red lights. Immediately, he panics and trips over his own feet during his attempted escape, landing gracelessly in the gutter._

_He’s not sure whether he blacks out or not, but he’s sure that there’s a substantial passage of time before he feels soft hands smacking his cheek. His bleary eyes open to see a gorgeous policewoman hovering over him. Full, messy curls and mocha-coloured skin that he really, really just wants to touch right now._

_Before he can react, she’s asking him questions and shining a flashlight into his eyes. Annoyed, he crinkles his nose and turns away. With a sigh, she slides one arm beneath his neck and helps him to his feet, letting him lean against her when his legs are as shaky as a baby deer._

_He lets his head droop against her shoulder, “You’re very beautiful, are you aware?”_

_She chuckles, “You’re high, you think everyone’s beautiful right now.”_

_For a second, he panics again, “Wait. Are you taking me to jail?”_

_She continues walking him to her car as they speak, “I’m supposed to be helping investigate a murder right now. I’m not too concerned about a harmless junkie-”_

_“I’m not a junkie just...Just please don’t take me in and phone my family, please?”_

_She looks at him and her eyes soften, “Your family too, eh?” She pauses as they stand near her car, “Alright, I’m still going to take you in. But it’s for your own safety, I wouldn’t feel comfortable letting you wander around the city in your state. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re a John Doe, alright? Do you have any identification on you?”_

_“Yeah, in my-”_

_She puts a hand up, “I’m going to pretend that you just said no. When I put you in my car and shut the door, hide whatever it is in your sock, okay? Can you do that for me?”_

_Sherlock nodded and started to sit in the seat before leaping back up, “Maybe I could help you? With the murder investigation, I mean.”_

_“How on earth would you help me?”_

_“I’m very...perceptive. I notice things.”_

_“You...notice things?”_

_Sherlock sighed, “You say you’re investigating a murder, but you’re just a Constable. I can see that from your uniform. So if you are telling the truth, then you’re doing it on your own accord, that means you have ambition. You also didn’t hesitate to help a random stranger in a shady neighborhood, so I can only assume you have a special sort of bravery. I predict you’ll be promoted to Sergeant before the year is up. I also suspect that your ambitious nature stems from a need to prove yourself from a young age, most likely because your parents always doted more on your older sister.”_

_“Huh.” She gave him a skeptical look up and down, “You got all that from our three minute walk?”_

_He smiled, “Of course. Was I right?”_

_“Yes actually-”_

_“Really?”_

_“Except-”_

_“Except?”_

_She gave him a toothy grin, “I’ve got an older brother. His name’s Sam.”_

_“Damnit. It’s always something.”_

_She pushed on his shoulder gently, “Now get in the car already. Before they realise I’m not patrolling where I’m supposed to be.”_

_He looked up at pleadingly, “Will you let me help you, though?”_

_She sighed, “I’m sorry, it would be against the law for me to release classified case details to a citizen.” She shrugged apologetically._

_He sulked in the backseat, “You’re no fun.”_

_“Murders are no fun, either.” She says as she shuts the car door then climbs into her own seat, “Buckle up now, John Doe, or I’ll turn the lights and sirens on!”_

_Sherlock made a face at her in the rearview mirror, but buckled up nonetheless. When she smiled at him though, he found himself smiling back._

_....years go by and hearts start to harden....._

He jerked awake, startled and annoyed to find himself in a hospital bed. The lights here were far too bright, too oppressive. It made him want to shut his eyes again. Instead, he turned to his left to see Lestrade sitting in a chair reading the newspaper. And apparently so engrossed in it that he hadn’t even noticed that Sherlock was awake.

Sherlock coughed, “I assume you’re supposed to be watching over me?”

Lestrade looked up and frowned, “You’re an idiot, you know that right?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’m well-aware that it wasn’t the wisest decision-”

“Wasn’t the wisest decision? Sherlock! You ran after an armed gunman! You’re lucky he missed any major arteries. And you STILL almost bled out. If Donovan-”

“Sally?”

“-Hadn’t gotten to you so quickly, you probably would have.”

Sherlock looked down, “Where is...Sergeant Donovan now?”

Lestrade sighed, “I sent her home a few hours ago. She’d been here almost ten hours. Pacing up and down the hallways like a ghost. Sherlock, I haven’t seen her like that since...”

Lestrade didn’t finish, and Sherlock didn’t need him to. Didn’t know what he would do if Lestrade had finished his statement. No matter how successful he was in deleting useless astronomical trivia, names of politicians, or the date of Mycroft’s birthday, he was incapable of forgetting the first time Sally looked at him harshly, with her eyes cold and her jaw set. When she’d walked away from him. For years he’d hated her for it, seen it as a betrayal when he’d needed her most. He had, of course, retaliated by lashing out and berating her every chance he got, all the while making sure that Lestrade found him indispensable.

And every time he’d callously mistreated her, he’d wanted to run back out to the street - to her - and apologise and wrap his arms around her. That would feel right. But every time something stopped him. Usually it was the cold look on her face.

In the beginning, she'd had the decency to look hurt when he was verbally abusive. But his attacks eventually wore her down until one stressful evening she finally snapped and became as vicious as he had been. From then on, you'd never watch the two of them interact and imagine that once upon a time...

He ignored Lestrade and turned his morphine up.

 

 


	2. Sidewalks to Walk On

_....Sidewalks to walk on...._

_Stalking was probably the proper term for what he was doing, but the connotations it carried left a bad taste in his mouth. True, he'd been dutifully gathering any information he could on the string of murders happening in the city, combing each article written for information. Even bothering Mycroft for details left out of the papers._

_And now he was racing towards the next confirmed site of a body being dumped. Billy had practically flown up the steps to his apartment this morning to tell him. He'd only just started utilising his homeless network and they were already paying off. His goal had been to get there before the police arrived so he could conduct his own examination of the body; the NSY could never be trusted to know what to look for on a corpse._

_Which is why he, in his haste, turned a corner without paying attention and ran straight into one of the officers. It took a moment for him to get his bearings from where he landed on the sidewalk, but once he opened his eyes, he recognised the police officer that had dragged him out of a gutter._

_She smiled and stood, brushing herself off before extending a hand, "We really need to quit meeting this way?"_

_He let her pull him up, "I'm sorry?"_

_"You know, you lying on the sidewalk."_

_He took a quick glance at the insignia on her arm, "I told you that you'd make Sergeant before the year was over.”_

_She rubbed it reverentially, “Yeah, I got promoted last week. I’m actually on my first case, since.” She smirked, “Well, my first ‘official’ one anyway.”_

_He smiled, “You know, that’s actually why I’m-”_

_He was interrupted by a man with brown hair and a brown coat, “Sergeant Donovan, I need you to come and take a look over here.”_

_Noting quickly the rank of the newcomer, Sherlock seized his opportunity, “Perhaps I could be of some assistance, Detective Inspector?”_

_The man’s eyebrows shot up, “Excuse me?”_

_Sherlock brushed himself off and straightened his coat, “Your suspect profile is all wrong. You’ve wasted time scouring the city streets when you should have been paying more attention to the boroughs.”_

_“The boroughs?”_

_“Typically, serial killers don’t kill far from their home. Of course, all of the bodies so far have been discovered in the City proper, but all of the sites, including this one, have been an exact 30-40 minute walk away from Islington, don’t you find that strange?”_

_“Well I-”_

_“And all of the victims: walking alone and intoxicated. Not one witness has come forward that saw anything happen to any of them. So your man, or woman although that is statistically less likely, is looking for easy targets.”_

_“Yeah, we figured that part out.”_

_“Here’s what you should be looking for: someone well-off, middle class perhaps upper middle class, a stable home-life now but a history of past transgressions - nothing felonious, but more than your typical youthful crimes -  that they’ve done a proper job of hiding. If I were you, I’d start in Islington.”_

_“Islington?”_

_“Yes! Clearly you’re looking for someone who is tucking their kids and, possibly, spouse in at night, then taking a walk into the city to satisfy some strange sort of need. Then, they clean themselves up and head back to their ersatz happy life.”_

_The DI was shaking his head, “Should I be worried about where you’re getting your information from?”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Unfortunately, all of my deductions are based on the paltry information given to the newspapers, but it should give you enough to go on for now. I could help you out a lot more if you’d let me have a look at the body.”_

_He watched as as the DI palmed his hand over his face and sighed before grabbing Sergeant Donovan and walking her a short distance away. Sherlock assumed the older man thought they’d be able to talk without being overheard, but he was wrong._

_“Tell me Sally, do you know this guy?” He overheard the man saying._

_She shrugged, “He’s an...acquaintance.”_

_“Why is he at my crime scene?”_

_“I promise boss, I wasn’t expecting to see him here.”_

_Sherlock heard the man sigh again, “Do you think he’s trustworthy? If what he told us is correct, it could be incredibly helpful.”_

_“Lestrade, you know it’s against proto-”_

_“You let me worry about that. I’ll get all the paperwork taken care of, if you think this guy is telling the truth.”_

_Sally turned her head and smiled at Sherlock, “I think he’s alright, Greg.”_

_“Alright then, I’ll finish up with forensics here, why don’t you go find out exactly what he knows and how he gets his information.”_

_“How do you expect me to do that?”_

_“You’re a Sergeant, figure it out, Sally.”_

_Both of them walked back towards them, the older man only looking slightly more assured. That was fine though, Sherlock knew he could prove his usefulness. For now though, he just needed to look as innocent as possible and pretend he hadn’t overheard them, people didn’t usually like that._

_He preemptively stuck out his hand as they walked up, people liked that, “The name is Sherlock Holmes, by the way.”_

_The DI grasped it firmly, “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I’m going to let you and Sally have a chat while I finish up here, since you two are already acquainted. We’ll see if we can work with what you told me today and Sally will take down your contact info so I can get in touch with you in case something else comes up, alright?”_

_Sherlock smiled, “I look forward to hearing from you.”_

_Greg huffed out a tired, “Right.” before turning and heading back to the crime scene._

_Sally looped her arm through his, surprising him, “So, care for a coffee?”_

_“I’m sorry? Are we leaving the scene?”_

_“Not much we can do here now. If you want on the actual scene, you have to be approved first as a consultant. So for now, let’s go have a coffee and a chat, ay?”_

_She strolled beside him on the sidewalk, keeping their arms linked for some reason. Sherlock was intrigued to find that he honestly didn’t mind the physical contact between them.  At the very least, he didn’t find it as annoying as he usually did when other people tried to initiate contact._

_Right as he was, well, starting to kind of enjoy it, they stopped at a cafe he was familiar with; he’d helped the owner figure out which employee had been pinching funds from the register a year ago. He insisted on purchasing beverages for them and asked Sally to grab a table for them as he did so. The owner, Aranciata, immediately came out of the office to talk to him and personally make his standard drink, even gave him a wink when he asked for two of them._

_“What’s this, then?” Sally asked as he sat down with the frosty drinks._

_“It’s a um...frappe. It’s kind of like a coffee milkshake,” He blushed without thinking, “Sorry, I have a bit of a sweet tooth, sometimes.”_

_She smiled, “It’s alright, me too,” She took a long sip and made a satisfied noise, “This is really good.”_

_“Best one in the city.”_

_Sally nodded towards the counter, “So, do you know the owner?”_

_“I assisted her when she had an issue with a thieving employee.”_

_“Oh, so this whole crime-solving thing, you do it often then?”_

_“I’d like to do it more, officially.” He locked eyes with her, “The way you found me before, that’s not how I usually am, I assure you. I’m typically much more in control of myself and my...indulgences. Solving a puzzle is one of the better ways for me to keep my mind occupied.”_

_“Well Inspector Lestrade seems to like you, so that’s good. There is something you need to know, though.”_

_“What’s that?”_

_Sally sighed, “I didn’t tell him how we met and I don’t plan to, okay? But you have to stay clean if you want to consult with the Met, on this or any other case. Can you promise me that?”_

_“Of course....Of course I can do that.”_

_....shouting up through cracks in the pavement...._

Sherlock blinked his eyes open and sighed. He was still in the same, uncomfortable, too plush, hospital bed. The same glaring lights were giving him a headache. The only change was John sitting at his bedside rather than Lestrade.

John immediately brought him some water, "Good to see you awake, mate."

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Not long, a few hours. Greg said that you weren't awake long last time so I was a bit worried."

"No, I was just....has Sergeant Donovan been by? So I can thank her, of course. For being more competent than usual."

John gave him a look, "Right. She's been a bit busy, with the rest of the team, trying to catch your shooter."

"Oh."

"But I," John looked like he was afraid Sherlock might break at any moment, "I can tell her that you asked about her."

Sherlock waved a hand, "No no, there's no need. I'm sure that I'll.... I'll have a chance to see her once I leave here."

"Right. Well, Mary made some scones for you, thought they might make you feel better."

"Thank you. I'll try one later," Sherlock observed the conflict washing over John's face, "Something's bothering you."

John started pacing, "It's just that... We've worked on a lot of cases together and...Sally, well. She's the last person I'd expect to run after you like she did. I just find it very confusing."

Sherlock leaned back and shut his eyes, "Nothing strange about it. Sergeant Donovan is a professional, you know that. She would have done it for anyone."

"Sherlock. She rode in the ambulance with you, don't you remember?"

 _Oh_. So he hadn't imagined that, "She did?"

"Yes. She insisted. Wouldn't even let me consider jumping in." John sighed and clenched his fist, "I know this is a strange idea to entertain, but is there something you're not telling me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's possible, there are loads of things I don't tell you."

" _Sherlock_. You know what I mean."

He wasn't in the mood to construct a believable lie, and he was even less in the mood to explain the situation, "It's all transport John, you know that."

John sighed, "Of course. Be all mysterious about it. I'll just go check in with Mary, then."

He closed his eyes again, "Probably for the best."


	3. Oh You Had It...

_....Oh you had it...._

_He’d been dissolving a set of his mother’s spoons - that he’d nicked on his last visit - into various acids at different strengths when he’d heard the knock at the door. He’d paused for a moment, there was no reason to expect a visitor this afternoon so it was most likely his brother or someone that was lost. Neither of which he was inclined to deal with._

_When the knocking continued, he gave a frustrated sigh and peeled his gloves off before huffing his way over to the door and creaking it open. Wide, brown eyes stared back at him and he found himself returning the smirk that graced Sergeant Donovan’s face. Stepping back, he opened the door the rest of the way and tried to gracefully lean against it._

_“Sergeant Donovan, to what do I owe the honour?”_

_“Seeing if you were busy this afternoon, may I come in?”_

_“Oh! Oh of course.”_

_She sauntered past him and had a look around, “I like your place, it’s very cozy. Nicer than mine.”_

_He sighed, “I’m a bit ashamed to admit that it was a gift from my parents. When it was clear that I was going to move out, they decided it was a better option than letting me live on the street.”_

_“Well they have very nice taste.”_

_Sherlock wracked his brain for what proper visitor protocol was, “Would you um...like some tea? I’m afraid I have an experiment currently being conducted in the kettle but I’m sure I’ve got a pan somewhere I could boil water in...and I know Mum left a teapot here somewhere...”_

_Sally laughed, “No, that’s alright! I was actually just going to ask if you’d like to walk around the park with me.”_

_He gave her a confused look, “Excuse me?”_

_“I’ve got to find a guy and trail him. Lestrade seems to think he’ll be wandering around Regents Park today so that’s where I’m heading,” She gave him a nervous smile and scrunched her nose, “It’s always more fun if you’re not doing it alone so...would you like to come with?”_

_“Are you sure? You want to walk around a public area with me?”_

_“Sure! Why not? We could even grab some frappes on the way, if you’d like. I think you got me hooked on them.”_

_Sherlock’s brain froze. This kind of thing never happened to him; people just didn’t show up on his doorstep wanting to spend an afternoon with him. People typically found him callous, uncouth, uncaring. Not an ideal candidate to take to the park._

_But still... “Umm, I think I’d like that. My experiment was going rubbishly anyway.”_

_“What were you working on?”_

_“Dissolving silver in various acids at varying strengths.”_

_“Any particular reason?”_

_He shrugged, “Boredom?”_

_She chuckled, “Well I’m glad I swung ‘round, then. Are you gonna change or will you be strolling around Regents in your pajamas?”_

_“Oh! Oh, yes. Yes. Let me just...change real quick. Sorry.”_

_He wasn’t even sure if any of his clothes were clean - he was sure he’d been wearing his pajamas for at least the past three days, but as he rummaged through the pile in his bedroom, he came across a mostly-clean pair of jeans that hung loosely on his hipbones. He threw on a shirt before frowning as he realized that there was a stain on the shoulder. Somewhere, he knew he had at least one clean cardigan; which he finally found thrown across a chair. With it buttoned-up, he looked quite nice, almost normal._

_The look on Sally’s face when he exited his bedroom was one he hadn’t seen in awhile, at least not on a sober person. She playfully smiled at him and lightly slapped him on the shoulder as they left his apartment._

_“You look rather nice, people will think I pulled a pretty one.”_

_Sherlock coughed, “What?”_

_Sally rolled her eyes, “Calm down, I’m just teasing. You do look nice though.”_

_“As do you. Your umm....uniform fits you well.”_

_She paused on the street laughing, “Oh really? Well thank you!”_

_“Sorry...I’m not...I’ve never been particularly apt at delivering compliments.”_

_“You’re quite good at it when you’re high.”_

_He stopped walking, “What?”_

_“You don’t remember?”_

_“I assume you understand that my entire memory of that evening is a bit fuzzy.”_

_“Well. You gave me a very nice compliment while I was half-dragging you to my car.”_

_They resumed their stroll “Did I?”_

_“Yeah!”_

_“If I may ask, what did I say?”_

_A cheeky smile flashed across her face, “You said that I was beautiful.”_

_He narrowed his eyebrows, “Well you are.”_

_“Stop it! You’ll make me blush and then I’ll never forgive you!”_

_“It’s a factual statement, Sergeant Donovan. I’m just surprised I was capable of perceiving that so clearly while my mind was otherwise altered.”_

_“You’re quite an interesting fellow, Sherlock Holmes, are you aware?”_

_“That’s one of the nicest ways that someone has described me.”_

_She laughed again, “Yeah, I can imagine.”_

_“So...who are we looking for again?”_

_“Uh...tall bloke, black hair, usually well-dressed. Lestrade says he’s got big eyes, so that should be something easy to spot.”_

_“And we’re just supposed to follow him around?”_

_“Yeah. If we even find him.”_

_“Right. Frappes then?”_

_Sherlock had no idea how long they walked around the park, possibly a few hours judging by the relative location of the sun when they started. Somehow, time became relative as they strolled and chatted; Sally about her decision to join the police academy after an aborted attempt at a sociology degree, Sherlock mostly grumbled about how his passion for chemistry seemed to clash with what his university allowed. At first he’d tried independent study, but hated the professors constantly needling him for results. His dissatisfaction and boredom had ultimately led to him dropping out._

_“Well it just means you’ll have more time for...whatever this is, right?” Sally asked, grinning, “Crime-solving, I mean.”_

_“I suppose so, assuming the Met continues to consult with me.”_

_“I know Greg really appreciated your help on that last case. Who knows how many more victims there would have been if you hadn’t barged into me at the crime scene!”_

_“Excuse me? I didn’t ‘barge’ into you! I was just...rather careless in my haste.”_

_She laughed, “Of course! Still though, what you do is rather...oh bugger,” She looked up at the sky, “That’s not good.”_

_He followed suit, observing the ominously dark clouds roll in, “Yes. We should probably walk faster.”_

_The rain started shortly afterwards, a veritable downpour that soaked them almost immediately. Sally giggled and grabbed his hand, forcing him to run alongside her through the park and nearly crash into a few patrons doing the same thing to escape the storm. At one point, they took a shortcut through a field and nearly slipped on the wet grass; the only sounds Sherlock could hear were the thrums of raindrops and the shouts of glee coming from Sergeant Donovan_

_They stopped in an alley under the eaves of a building to catch their breath, Sherlock nearly doubling over from the unexpected exertion. Sally leaned against the brick and started laughing uncontrollably, while Sherlock joined in shortly thereafter, brought nearly to tears by the absurdity of their situation._

_Sherlock stood up and turned his head towards her, “What were you about to say, by the way?”_

_Sally shouted over the rainstorm, “What?”_

_“Before the clouds rolled over us! You were saying something about what I do!”_

_“Oh, well...you’re rather brilliant, is all. But you know that, right?” She ran a hand through her damp locks, “God, our hair is going to be ruined.”_

_Sherlock bit his bottom lip, contemplating whether or not he wanted go further, “Would you like to mess it up some more?”_

_Sally looked at him as he leaned in closer, her eyes wider and darker than usual, flicking up and down between his eyes and slightly parted lips. Taking a chance, he brought his hand up to cup her jaw and ran his thumb slowly, gently, across the skin right below her lips. Victor had liked that, he remembered._

_After a moment that seemed to drag - not that he really cared, not with the way Sally was looking at him - she leaned up and closed the gap between them. At first, all he could focus on was how soft her lips were, like wet pillows languorously gliding against his own. Then, the tip of her tongue traced the inside of his lips, her hands gripped his cardigan, and he lost himself in the buzzing that was flooding his head._

_All at once, every other sense but taste faded away, leaving him only able to savour the faint taste of coffee that still lingered. He pushed in closer, wanting to chase every trace, wanting to feel her pressed against him._

_Her fingers trailed up through his hair and she pulled back, “Your flat is close, yeah?”_

_He tried to focus, “Where are we?”_

_“Umm...somewhere down Marylebone Road, I think.”_

_Looking up, he glanced around him, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s close,” For just a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to map out the fastest way back, “Alright. Just follow me. Hopefully we won’t get too drenched.”_

_She grasped his hand and grinned, “Lead the way, then.”_

_***_

_Wet palms spread against his chest, wet thighs slid against his hips, wet toes tucked under his knees._

_His hands were holding onto her soft skin somewhere between her waist and hips, but Sally was defiantly setting the rhythm, rocking back and forth slowly. Her eyes were closed but his were focused on the rivulets of water the trailed their way from her damp hair down her chest. The sheets were damp and he wasn’t sure how much of it was from the rain and how much of it was sweat._

_One hand smoothed its way up her belly until he was able to cup her breast and knead the skin gently, using his thumb to caress the pebbly texture of her nipple until it delightfully hardened. A gasp escaped her perfect lips and she dragged her nails down his pale skin, effectively leaving stark red marks across his chest muscles. He groaned appreciatively and began thrusting upwards in time with her movements._

_Suddenly, she threw her head back and she was shouting his name and arching her back and clenching spastically around him. It was too much and just enough to take him there._

_And he was so close._

_He was so close._

_He was so close._

_The rain continued outside, unnoticed._

_....lips and teeth to ask how my day went...._

He groaned as the nurse stuck another needle in him.

“Is that really necessary?”

The older woman, _Early forties, first child just went to uni, her husband doesn’t know about her gambling problems_ , gave him a small smile, “I’m afraid so, we need to make sure you have enough fluid in you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “How many more of these, then?”

“Oh brother mine, I see you’re feeling your usual self.”

He turned his head quickly to see Mycroft leaning in the doorway, “How good to see you, Mycroft. Please, do come in. If you can fit through the door.”

The nurse hurriedly finished and excused herself as Mycroft entered. He had on a smarmy grin and Sherlock hated it. Hopefully, his brother was only here to let him know he’d be discharged soon, although he knew that was hoping too much.

Mycroft settled into the chair by the bed, “Hmm... that Sally Donovan, quite the hero, eh?”

Sherlock tried to maintain his flippant attitude, “I supposed she saved her life. Good on the Met that they have some officers willing to do their job.”

“Yes, and I believe this is her third time, am I correct?”

Sherlock adopted an incredulous look, “What?”

He chuckled, “Brother dear, do you really think you can hide things from me just because a Constable was nice enough to sign you in as a John Doe?”

“You kn...” Sherlock scoffed, “Of course you knew about it. But...what was the second time?”

Mycroft sighed, “You’re aware of what the second time was, I shouldn’t need to remind you.”

“That didn’t involve her. I had to get myself clean or they wouldn’t allow me to continue to consult with the Met, you know that.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, “You’ve probably convinced yourself of that, I’m sure. But I find that love is always a much more vicious motivator.”

Sherlock sneered, “I find it to be an unfortunate defect.”

The smarminess was back, but Mycroft was standing now which, Sherlock hoped, meant he was thankfully leaving. He stopped for a moment at the end of the hospital bed and traced his fingers against the thin cotton, near Sherlock’s feet but careful not to actually touch him.

“You know,” Mycroft stated absently, “I believe if I’d known how much she...cared, I might have been more apt to let her visit you. When you were detoxing.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “She tried to?”

“Oh yes, multiple times. Practically begged me once. I was insistent, though, that you needed to be as secluded as possible,” He sighed and made a face, “That may have been a mistake.”

“Did you just admi-”

“Get some rest, brother dear. The sooner you’re healed, the sooner you’ll be out of here.”


	4. But Oh No You Lost It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone hop aboard the angst-train!

_....But oh no you lost it...._

_He hadn’t intended for this to happen._

_The whole idea had been a mistake, yes, but he thought he’d been cautious. He’d purchased the usual small, plastic baggie from someone he thought he could trust. They’d never sold him anything off before. Of course, any dealer could take advantage of the young addicts who didn’t know any better -  cut their cocaine with baby powder or baking soda, toss some oregano in a bag and call it marijuana. But Sherlock wasn’t stupid, he knew better, knew to avoid the type of shady arsehole that would skimp on product and play roulette with people’s lives._

_Or at least, he thought he did._

_To be honest, the whole day had left him a bit unhinged. He’d been testing a soil sample from a crime scene - the only evidence that hadn’t been hopelessly trampled on and tampered with by Lestrade’s incompetent forensic team - and unable to find anything unique or helpful. No traces of rare minerals, no distinct compositions, not even any distinguishing plant matter. Just an entirely average wad of dirt that could have been found anywhere in the city._

_Then his insufferable brother had decided to make an appearance. He’d hoped, for an instant, that it would be the usual tête-à-tête wherein Mycroft would request his assistance, Sherlock would heartily refuse, and Mycroft would make a grumpy face. Sometimes, he was successful in tricking Sherlock into doing his bidding, but those times were...well they weren’t as rare as Sherlock would have wanted but were rare nonetheless._

_But this time was different. Their grandfather was ill - gravely ill, as it happened. And now Mum and Dad were requesting his presence at their estate in preparation for the worst. Of course, death was an inevitable part of existence, Sherlock had been aware of that for some time, but the didn’t eliminate the sinking feeling in his gut._

_His grandfather. Who’d helped him memorise the periodic table. Who’d gifted a biography of Marie Curie for Sherlock’s birthday, and took the time to explain the very real implications of radiation poisoning. Who’d carefully shown him how different the ash from each of his elegant cigars looked._

_He had grumbled out some sort of response to Mycroft, enough to placate him and hasten his departure. And then he’d sat there, staring at his microscope as if it held any sort of answer for him. Very little could persuade him to submit himself to the disapproval that would no doubt emanate from his parents once he was in their presence again. And he wasn’t sure if he could handle the sight of the strongest figure he had known bested by frailty and old age and, heaven forbid, senility._

_In his - weak - defense, he had tried to contact Sally. But she was busy questioning witnesses regarding a case, the same case he had been testing dirt samples for, and wasn’t returning his calls or texts. He didn’t want to admit his weakness for needing something instantaneous but at that time it was exactly what he desired - something that would hit him quickly, heal him quickly, let his mind race towards something else._

_But this...this high was different. He had expected the enhanced awareness - that was always his favorite part - an elevation of mood and possibly even a tiny bit of paranoia, that was normal. Something wasn’t quite right though, the first sign being that he suddenly felt very detached, as if he were watching his own body walk down the street. The euphoria was different this time too, he practically felt invincible. And he wasn’t sure how he’d made it to this crime scene, but he was absolutely, completely, thoroughly going to solve it, of that he was quite sure._

_How he ended up on the pavement though, that was quite a puzzle. He rolled over and stared blankly up at the sky, hoping perhaps that it might offer him a clue. Oh! The crime scene, yes, that still needed to be taken care of, but his legs were stubbornly refusing to move._

_Suddenly, a very familiar head of curly hair came into his view. She was looking right at him but his eyes refused to focus. He could feel her hand striking his cheek as she tried to get a response from his prone form. An uncontrollable laughing fit started as his brain searched through its neurons for why this felt familiar._

_Then he remembered, “You were right, we really must stop meeting like this!” He sputtered out between giggles._

_To his confusion, Sally didn’t seem to find it as funny. Instead, a frown marred her otherwise magnificent face and she sighed in a way that reminded him of Mycroft. In the next instant, he had hurled himself over on all fours and was violently retching onto the pavement. He was never really sure whether it was the drugs in his system or the reminder of his insipid brother that triggered it._

_The next few hours for him were a blur of concerned faces, flashing lights, being moved against his will, and white walls. The only concrete image he’s able to hold onto is the sadness and disappointment so apparent on Sally’s face. A memory of it remains burned into his brain, always haunting him when he’s at his lowest._

_By the time he finally feels clear-headed, he’s been in the rehab clinic three whole days. He immediately fights it, immediately tries to convince the staff to let him leave, but his brother’s offensive, obstructive signature keeps him there for sixteen whole weeks. A third of a year. Four whole months when, instead of putting his brain forth to its fullest potential, he will be stuck talking to some infernal counselor about his depression and his motivations and god knows what else._

_At first it doesn’t bother him when he doesn’t have visitors. He’d rather spend his time reading his old textbooks - which his brother had provided for him - during visiting hours than risk quality time with his parents like the rest of the patients seem keen on doing. Besides, he’s in no shape to entertain anyone at the moment._

_But then - seven weeks in - the girlfriend of one of the heroin addicts visits and Sherlock realises that its the first time he’s seen her face light up since he’s been there. And for the rest of the day, she’s beaming as if she’s not stuck in some colourless building and berated for deriving pleasure from a depressant that society no longer finds acceptable._

_Her happiness, however, isn’t what bothers him. Rather, it’s because her_ joie de vivre _reminds him that there should be someone out there waiting for him. Someone with eyes that are somehow dark and bright at the same time. Someone who, like him, seems to spend hours on their hair trying to make it look perfectly and delightfully unkempt. Someone with fingers long and bony like his own that fit perfectly linked together. Someone who smiles so genuinely when she sees him._

_Unfortunately, he reminded himself, she wasn’t smiling the last time she saw him. And hasn’t, yet, checked in on him. The harsh reminder makes him crumble a bit. He could handle disappointment from his parents, their standards were always too high anyway. He could handle Mycroft’s derision, he knew it came from a good place, even if it was misplaced. He could even handle judgement from his peers, they, after all, barely mattered anyway. But trying to fathom the idea of dealing with all three from a person that he finally............liked. A lot. That was a callous burden to bear._

_Over the weeks, as his resolve to convince everyone of his full commitment to sobriety increases, his gentler emotions start to erode. Every day that passes without hearing from her crushes him a little bit more until he convinces himself that this one impulsive mistake has pushed her away forever. Bitter as he is, broken as he is, he finally forces himself to bury all of the.......like that he has for brilliant...funny...gorgeous Sally Donovan by the time Mycroft graciously swoops in and signs the paperwork to allow him back into polite society. Hateful, interesting, murderous, banal, polite society._

_It is days before he sees her. He’s hesitant to call her, even to text her, for fear of the rejection that he knows will lie in her words. A brilliant ~~boyfriend~~  _ _lover? Well, anyone would want that. But a drug-addicted one that’s forced into rehab? Not everyone’s cup of tea. And right now he still sees himself decidedly as the latter. So he remains silent, hoping that she will somehow sense his presence back out in the open and make the first move herself._

_His life will never be that neat._

_When he finally sees her, it’s at a crime scene that Lestrade has instructed him to visit (after questioning him obtusely at length about the nature of his sobriety). The crime scene is outside of a decent-looking two-bedroom townhome, definitely an upper-middle class residence. But that’s not what he’s focused on. What he sees shatters him: she is standing there, relaxed, and laughing - LAUGHING - at some no doubt ridiculous joke told by the bearded colleague standing next to her. It should seem innocuous, but after the emptiness that has flooded him for the past four months, nothing is benign._

_She notices him right away, the look on her face is a warring mixture of disbelief and surprise, something not unpleasant if he’d seen it twelve weeks ago. Now he was only annoyed. He notices her walking towards him and changes his course, side-stepping around her to reach the area where Lestrade is standing. Several blacklights are set-up around the scene, drawing attention to the large, red letters glowing on the sidewalk._

_He crouches down, running a gloved hand over them, then looks at Lestrade, “So, a kidnapping then?”_

_Lestrade sighs, “Yeah, appears to be. We got the call about an hour ago from a neighbor who heard screaming. There’s a young couple that lives here, we’re thinking it was the wife that was taken,” He pauses, “Is this blood? I’ve never seen anything like it.”_

_Sherlock leaned down to sniff the letters, then sat back up with a smirk, “It’s chlorophyll.”_

_“What?”_

_“You know, the pigment that allows plants to engage in photosynthesis,” He huffed at Lestrade’s blank expression, “It’s what makes plants green.”_

_“Oh. So why is it glowing red?”_

_Sherlock’s grin was manic, “I actually remember this experiment from university. Typically, chlorophyll is in plant tissue surrounded by other similar biomolecules so its able to transfer its energy to other molecules via photons. But, when chlorophyll is put into alcohol, it dissolves and the alcohol molecules won’t accept any energy from it so the photons are, for lack of a better word, stuck on the chlorophyll until the energy is emitted as a low-energy light. Hence the red color. I’ve never seen this much of it though, very neat!”_

_“So what does all that mean? Does it help us?”_

_“Well, you’re definitely looking for a biologist. Most likely a biochemist. If I were you, I’d try to find out if the couple knew any. Especially any that, perhaps, recently lost their job.”_

_“Right.”_

_Lestrade stands up and strides away, yelling into his walkie-talkie and relaying the information Sherlock gave him. For a moment, Sherlock stays crouched and further examines the - quite clever - ransom note. It’s well-written, not something that was hastily scrawled as the kidnappers made their exit. Strange considering the message is on the pavement in front of the house, where anyone could see. Granted, the message doesn’t really show up under normal light, but it would still take time to make it look this clear. He makes a mental note to mention this to Lestrade - obviously the kidnapper was someone seen often by the neighbors._

_When he stands up, he’s immediately aware of a person standing to his left. Without turning, he’s certain he already knows who it is. And he’s not ready to be around her, not yet. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the hurt expression on her face. There are traces of hopefulness there, too, something he didn’t expect._

_“Sherlock,” She cautiously says when he doesn’t acknowledge her, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here...”_

_He twists toward her and sneers, “Well that’s obvious.” His eyes flick up to the man she’d been talking to before._

_She turns her head to see where his gaze falls, then scoffs, “Are you upset because Anderson and I were chatting?”_

_“Oh, is that his name?”_

_“Yes. You’ve worked with him before, remember?”_

_Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Why would I?”_

_“Because he’s one of the best forensic specialists at the Met.”_

_Her praise makes him bristle, “Really now? Is that why you’re so taken with him?”_

_He starts to huff away but she grabs his arm, “_ Sherlock _. I’m not ‘taken’ with anyone. Why are you acting like this?”_

_He wants to bare his teeth at her. Shout ‘FOUR MONTHS!’ at her. Shake her and ask her where she was that entire time. He was alone and depressed and didn’t hear ANYTHING from her while he was locked away. He NEEDED her and she was absent._

_But he can’t bring himself to do any of that. A part of him knows that he’s hurt her enough. Of course he can’t blame her if she doesn’t care for him anymore. It’s better, after all, to prevent himself from being in such a state of mental distress again. So he puts himself on lockdown, wills any emotion away from his face._

_Without much effort, he wrenches his arm away from her grasp, “When Lestrade gets back, let him know that he needs to be looking for someone close to the couple, someone that the neighbours wouldn’t question the presence of were they here” He shrugs his shoulders, “Who knows, it could even be the husband doing it.”_

_His mouth presses into a thin line before he turns and tightens his coat around his frame. Without looking back, he leaves the crime scene. He knows what he’d see if he turned his head, the same expression Sally had when she’d cradled his drug-addled cranium in the gutter four months ago. This hurts too much, knowing that her sadness is for him and her smiles are for someone else._

_The hateful words will come later. As will the accusations that start out as baseless. Right now he only gets a taste of the twisting in his chest that happens when she moves on. But it’s right now, in this moment, walking away from someone that could have been so perfect, that he’s convinced he’s hurt the most._

_....Looking back you shouldn't have fought it...._

 


	5. Lips and Teeth To Ask How My Day Went

He blinks a few times before he’s fully awake. After a few deep breaths, he relaxes back into the bed again, pleased to discover that most of the pain in his shoulder is gone. Hopefully, he can convince them to let him leave and finish his recuperation back at Baker Street, he’s feeling more and more useless by the day.

Not to mention his thoughts have been relentlessly crowded with the thought of Sally Donovan ever since he’d nearly grasped her hand in the ambulance. He groaned when he thought of the mental torture he’d been experiencing as his Mind Palace seemed irrevocably bent on forcing him to remember why he’d cared so much in the first place.

“How are you umm...how are you feeling?”

The voice startles him, forcing him back into his surroundings. He’s hesitant to turn his head towards the visitor’s chair, worried that the voice was a hallucination, some sort of manifestation of his addled mind. With a strangled sort of hope, he crushes his eyes back together, then tilts his gaze towards the window and slowly opens them.

And she’s there, sitting. Face wrung with worry but trying to hide it. She’s looking at him expectantly, gnawing on her bottom lip while she waits for an answer from him.

Surprisingly, the smile comes easy, “I’m feeling...much better.” He casts his eyes down before flicking them back up to meet her own, “Thank you, Sally.”

And her smile is...perfect. Drenching and wonderful and god, how he’s missed it. And it’s for him this time, not teasing or sarcastic, but genuine and warm. It wrenches him. An involuntary shiver rolls through him when she stands up and moves closer, although still keeping a safe distance. As if she’s afraid to actually touch him, her hand wavering close to the bed with fingers mindfully twitching.

He’s just about to close the gap with his own hand when she speaks again, “Stay right here...well, I mean, obviously you have to but, you know what I mean. I’ll be right back, okay? I promise.”

Confused, he just nods as she smiles again and runs out of the room. Once again, he’s left by himself in relative silence with nothing but the consistent beeps of the machines he’s attached to. Still, he bites his bottom lip in a grin to himself. She’s here. She’s here and she doesn’t...seem...like she hates him. That warms him. He can deal with not-hate for now, for once that seems like the perfect starting point.

She’s still smiling when she walks back into his room - her wide, infectious smile whenever she feels terribly pleased with herself. It’s one of his favorites. In fact, he’s so focused on the curve of her lips and the gleaming of her teeth that it takes him a second to notice that one of her hands is tucked behind her back. Her smile closes into a coy grin as she steps closer to the hospital bed.

It’s only once she uses her free hand to slowly raise him to seated position that she finally shows him what she’s hiding: a large plastic cup filled with a slushy, pink substance. A short smile breaks out over his face as she holds it out for him to take, although he raises an eyebrow in confusion.

She rolls her eyes, “It’s a strawberry frappe. I...umm...they said that you probably shouldn’t have caffeine yet but I just...I just thought-”

“Thank you.” He finally takes it out of her hand.

“Yeah, it might be too sweet...”

He took a long, drawn-out sip, “It’s fantastic. Thank you, Sally. Really.”

The silence in the room was immediately uncomfortable. Once they were stripped of the aggression that had plagued their interactions for so long, once Sherlock was able to clearly see the softness in her face when she gazed at him - and perhaps wonder how long it had been there, how long it had gone unnoticed by him in his arrogance - Sherlock wasn’t sure how to react.

Sally had saved him. Again. For the third time, he’d been reckless with his own life and Sally had been there to pick him up out of the gutter. And now she was at his bedside, her fingers once again twitching like they were aching to reach out and link up with his own. And she’d brought him a gift, a significant gift. Something that perhaps hinted that she wanted the bitterness to end as well.

God this morphine made his thought process sluggish.

He shifted the frappe into his other hand and used his now free one to reach out - more timidly than he’d like - and grasp Sally’s trembling fingers, refusing to hesitate this time. With a gentle tug, he pulled her closer until her hips were pressed against the hospital bed. She smiled shyly, wavering a bit, but didn’t pull away. Instead, she brushed away a wayward curl from his forehead and leaned down to press her lips against the newly-revealed, clammy skin.

A shudder went through him involuntarily, a combination of surprise and regret that it had to be here, and now, that this finally happened. He’d much prefer to be showered, properly dressed, able to speak without having to wonder how horrible his breath had to be.

With a sigh, he pulled their joined hands until they rested on his chest, “Sally I...I just want to say that I’m sorry. I really am. For how I’ve treated you.”

“I’m sorry, too-”

“No. You wouldn’t have even had a reason if I hadn’t been so...callous. You deserved better than that. And still do. Please just...give me an opportunity, once I’m out of this place, to make up for my past behaviour.”

“Do you mean it?”

“I believe that I’m fully aware now of the consequences when I saw things that I do not mean.”

He held his breath waiting for an answer, and received one when she bent her head low to press another kiss to his forehead, then one of his protruding cheekbones, and finally a chaste, lingering on one his lips. It was over nearly as quickly as it had started, and when he opened his eyes, she was walking back out the door.

Before leaving, she rested a hand on the doorframe and turned back to look at him over her shoulder, “Rest up, Sherlock Holmes. When you get out of here, you’re taking me out.”

His chest warmed, “Really?”

“Oh yes. To dinner.”

He leaned his head further into the pillow as she walked away, smirking cheerfully to himself before before turning to look at the bandage that just peeked out from under his hospital gown. As a test, he lowered his morphine until he could feel the pain in his shoulder again and smiled at how low the dosage was.

He’d be out of here in no time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhh......yeeessssss
> 
> For this to be so short, it took a lot longer to write than I would have wanted. Turns out I'm not so great at fluffy, reconciliation scenes. And I wanted theirs to be quite fluffy. 
> 
> Anywayssss....feel free to [follow me on tumblr](http://somnambulipstick.tumblr.com) if you liked it and if you enjoy pictures of Rupert Graves and pugs (not, unfortunately yet, at the same time [although I would die of happiness if someone could find me a picture of Rupert Graves holding a pug])


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